Stutely didn't like the way the Sheriff's voice softened when he spoke to Marian. Tenderness didn't fit him; it was incongruous. It was weird. Did he really expect to turn Marian this way? Starving her and torturing her friends, then smoothing it over with a hot meal and a concerned face? Or was it all just a sick game, punishing and rewarding them by turns till they didn't know which way was up anymore?
He set down his plate, leaving the last of his chicken and veg. (It wasn't guilt, he told himself, it was common bloody sense: Scarlet and Tuck needed it more.) He felt the protest in his body as he climbed to his feet, a sharp and painful jolt as the movement tugged at the stitches in his back. It was a bad idea – he swayed on the spot before gripping the bars to steady himself – but if the Sheriff decided to turn on a dime again, Will didn't want to be caught off his guard.
Scarlet, for all his protestations, looked terrible. Infection or blood poisoning, the leg was giving him serious trouble. After a moment, Stutely averted his gaze to give the man some privacy, but the strained expression stayed with him. The Sheriff was seeing it, too. Probably already planning new ways to exploit it. Jesus, this was fucked up.